


Outside The Midnight Hour

by hungrydean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cas is a sassy boy when he's grumpy, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Writer Castiel, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 22:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16880145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungrydean/pseuds/hungrydean
Summary: Inspiration always comes when you least expect it.





	Outside The Midnight Hour

**Author's Note:**

> for the deancaswc on tumblr.

_Writer’s block sucks._

Castiel sits in the back of a coffee shop, the fifth this week, his small laptop in front of him, coffee to his side, and he waits. He watches people and he waits. He scribbles words, half-assed sentences, tries to get through that sense of distaste for every single word he puts on paper. His coffee is strong enough to keep him alert, bitter enough to let him frown at every sip. He doesn’t add sugar. Sugar would make him feel too comfortable with the situation he was in. Writer’s block wasn’t meant to be solved by _feeding_ it. If he were to have a nice coffee every time his writer’s block hit, he’d never get rid of it.

_Not that he was getting rid of it now, though._

He tries again, types a few sentences. It starts off alright, words flowing out of his fingers. But the words don’t make sense, the letters hurt his eyes which are strained and tired, with or without glasses. Nothing seems to work. No words get him out of the panic, the inner fear that this time, it’s forever. He won’t ever be able to write again. He won’t make money, won’t ever make it to a level where he can live off of his own writings. The bullshit he’s putting on paper right now will never be enough. 

The people are uninspiring and dull, but he tries the old method anyway. 

_An old lady sits at the side eating breakfast. It’s 2PM. Who the hell eats breakfast at 2PM? Her dog is next to her. She feeds it things I’m not sure are good for dogs, but the dog eats it anyway. The lady will probably know if she’s taking care of it well. Why do I care about writing this down? She’s not interesting. Her hat is slightly off-color with her jacket. Maybe that’s how she likes it. For the record, I don’t like it._

He sighs, works back another sip of his coffee, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He’s supposed to be writing something beautiful. That’s his style, the things he wishes to publish are _all_ eloquent, filled with metaphors and imagery.

Yet, he can’t. He’s been trying for so long now, weeks spent trying different methods. Snippets of beginnings, thoughts, plot outlines, all scattered across untitled documents in the mess that is his _Writing_ folder. 

He can’t wait to get rid of it all. 

He writes some more about the lady, tries to think of her background story. Where is she from? Why is she here? Why does she keep feeding the dog those extremely big chunks of fat from the sausage on her plate? Maybe she has a distaste for the animal and wants it dead. Cas finds himself extremely uninterested and he scraps the few hundred words. 

_Today isn't going to be it, either_ , he thinks, and he decides that he’ll leave once he finishes his coffee. He brings the cup to his lips, is about to jug down the last bit in one big gulp to just be done with it. Then, he halts. 

The man walking in is wearing a leather jacket and has his snapback turned backwards, a few spikes of hair poking out of the gap in the front. His stubble only further defines his perfect-shaped face, and Cas stares, lowers his cup slowly and places it back on the table. 

Now _that’s_ what he calls inspiration. The guy walks over to the counter, hand pushed casually into his pocket. He greets the girl behind the counter with a large smile that, if directed at Cas, would make his knees go weak. 

“Hello, Muse,” Cas utters, then puts his hands onto the keyboard. 

_He radiates happiness, yet not like the sun. Unlike Shakespeare, I don’t wish to compare him to a summer’s day. That would be way too big of a compliment for said summer’s day._

_I am not like Shakespeare,_ he writes. _I won’t beat around the bush talking about him._ He is writing, but now the words stay. He doesn’t delete them, just writes. If he will ever use them, he doesn’t know. If they’d sell, he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t care, either. He has to put this on paper, write it down so he won’t ever forget. If this is the last time he ever sees this man (and he prays with all he has that it is not), he has to describe him so that he will never forget. 

_I don’t think I ever will forget_ , he finds himself writing. _It has been less than ten minutes, and yet he is ingrained into my brain, never giving me rest until I give it space to roam._ He doesn’t think about anyone reading this but himself, and that’s what keeps him from stopping. His coffee is cold and forgotten next to him, he doesn’t need that anymore. He has a Muse now. 

His Muse is sitting at a table and drinking his coffee. He’s also eating a piece of apple pie and is clearly enjoying it. The man has put his jacket away and turned his cap forward for some reason. Cas can’t decide what looks better on him. He keeps stealing glances, hoping the man won’t notice. The several fleeting moments they accidentally made eye contact leave Cas alert and concentrated. His heart is pumping in his chest and he doesn’t know if it is from finally being able to write or from the rush of excitement he gets from looking at this man. 

He writes like his life depends on it, words flowing like they are just finding the place they have always belonged. He makes typing errors but just _writes_ , unable to stop. There’s wild and inappropriate imagery: Cas would blush if anyone ever got to read the dirty imagery right in front of his eyes.

_He is even more beautiful naked. Skyclad and proud. Nothing about him doesn’t look like a golden, wondrous dream. He is perfect in every way, his chest broad, the freckles dusted on his face going down to cover his entire body. This is what Adonis must have looked like. His kisses are spirited and full of life and I have never felt this profound before. He pushes me up against the wall, growls into my ear that I am his. The mass mortality of the world cannot keep us from being eternal. Outside, the midnight hour—_

He looks up, and Muse is gone. Cas startles and turns to find Muse standing _very_ close behind him. 

“So… what crimes have I committed?”

Cas slams his laptop shut and knocks over the last bit of his coffee doing so. 

“ _Fuck._ Shit, sorry.” 

The little amount of coffee only spilled over the other side of the table, away from Cas’s laptop. Muse chuckles heartily and wipes up the coffee with a tissue from the box in the middle of the table. He throws it in the bin behind him like he cleans up stranger’s knocked over coffee all the time, then sits across from Cas, looking at him with lifely, forest green eyes. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have sneaked up behind you like that. Let’s start over. Tell me, what crimes have I committed?” 

“You…. what?” Cas frowns, shaking his head in confusion. He squints and Muse laughs. 

“You looked like you were writing a report on me. Kept looking back and forth as if you had to know everything about me. Worried you might be a detective set up to hunt me down and stuff. Figured if that’s the case, might as well make myself aware of the fact I am a suspect in a case.” He winks. 

“I’m… not a detective,” Cas says, still trying to calm down from the scare. “I… apologize if I was intruding your privacy in any way.” 

“Ain’t no thing, man.” Muse waves his arm around and tugs at his cap. “Didn’t really believe you to be a detective, anyway. Would’ve been a damn horrible one, being so obvious.” 

Cas slowly returned from the shock and embarrassment realizing that Muse really _wasn’t_ upset or hurt and was here simply to… tease him. 

“Well, if that is so, that would mean I would be a very _good_ detective. I would be so _obvious_ about it that you would never believe in a hundred years me to be a detective, which, of course, is exactly what I’d want you to think, were I to be one.” 

Muse hesitates, then throws his head back in laughter. The energy that bursts from him is even more intense from so close-up. 

“Touché.” 

Their eyes meet and Cas is lost for a moment, in a way he would never be able to put into words. “What is your name?” He asks. “You know, for my police report.” 

“Dean,” the man says with a soft chuckle, “and yours?” 

“Call me Cas.” 

Dean smiles. “Alright, Cas. What _are_ you, then, if not a detective?” 

“I… am an author who has been desperately trying to fight his writer’s block for the past few weeks and was about to give up for yet another day.” He hesitates. “But… then you walked in.” 

He is bad at flirting, has always been. He always feels incredibly awkward not know what to say and what _not_ to say. It always seems that he is either too vague or way too precise. Cas is sure that this crossed the line—but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He blushes a warm shade of pink, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he smiles, then ducks his head down to the table, grinning softly. 

“So I’m like… what? Your muse?” He asks, looking up. 

“You- you could say so.” Cas stutters. They’re both looking at each other expectantly, hesitant yet excited. He tries to find his courage back, pushes through the initial fear of going too far. They talk, ask questions, get another coffee and this time Cas adds all the sugar and milk he wants. He buys Dean another slice of pie and gets one himself, laughs at the whipped cream on Dean’s nose and listens to him talk. The afternoon flies by. Dean says he can barely remember what he was supposed to be doing as they finally decide to leave the coffee shop together, Cas with his laptop bag in his hand, Dean with his bag loosely slung over his shoulder. 

This is too good to let go, too much to risk losing just because of his nerves. Cas clears his throat. “The thing with muses is…” He says, and Dean looks at him with a hint of a smile. “I wouldn’t want to exploit you in any way. Using you for my own personal gain isn't what I want. This might be too prompt and do tell me if it is… but I might be favoring the idea of offering you dinner? Nothing formal, just… my house, if you want.” 

“I—” Dean hesitates, and Cas can hear his own heartbeat racing. “Would really enjoy that, actually.” 

Cas has never felt this good after fighting any other writer’s block. 

_Outside the Midnight Hour_ is finished in a few months. Cas ends up not using any of what he wrote about Dean that day in the coffee shop, but he stays Cas’s most important inspiration. 

_To Dean,_ the dedication reads, _my muse wearing a backwards snapback and a smile that lit up the entire place. You became so much more. I love you endlessly._


End file.
